Chapter 12
After two weeks in Spa, Amy felt as she did when coming out of an illness.
She had been going through the motions of their daily ritual sluggishly as she grew accustomed to life in the thermal town.
Their father led them to drink the waters every morning and then on a surreptitious detour to La Redoute afterward for breakfast. Contrary to Mr. Hughes’s strict orders, he discovered not long into their stay that Miss Ferrin had been right.
Everyone of note went to La Redoute for a morning meal at ten, even the most dedicated curists.
And although the breakfast was light—bread and fresh butter, fruit, tea, coffee or chocolate, and fortified wines—it was a more pleasurable alternative to a cup of chocolate alone in one’s rooms.
The tables at the assembly hall filled with mixed company.
No one in Spa seemed to pay the least attention to rank, although it was an unspoken rule that one of a lower rank did not approach one of a higher without being invited.
Still, the “Earl of Harding,” a sobriquet for the Duke of Grantly, and the “Countess of Egerton,” a sobriquet for the Duchess of Howe, both mixed quite naturally with the common Mr. Cosmos and Miss Amy Bridwells of society.
The Princess Orlova had even acknowledged Amy once again with a nod after their brief interaction at the Sauvenière.
By degrees, Amy and her sisters began to choose tables near the people they recognized and eventually sat with Josephine Ferrin and Rebecca Bainesworth, with whom they were now on a Christian-name basis.
Their father had discovered his own circle of acquaintances and sat with gentlemen from the English Club or those he’d discovered to share his scholarly bent.
A string quartet accompanied their dining and conversation with such cheerful music, Amy decided it must elevate any but the most morose of dispositions.
Games of chance and skill began at eleven o’clock, and for the more devoted, lasted until two o’clock.
Then, there were the walks in the Parc de Quatre-Heures or the Capuchin gardens, which they had begun to accomplish daily.
With such pleasant diversions to occupy her, Amy found she did not miss England as much as she thought she would.
One had a sense of peace and simplicity in Spa.
And, unlike her family home in Charing—especially after James had left—she never found time to feel bored.
She had seen James nearly every morning at the Pouhon and Sauvenière sources and, by some unspoken rule between them, did no more than exchange a civil greeting.
She would never admit to another soul how much she looked for him on the afternoon excursions and was disappointed when their paths did not cross.
It did little good to remind herself that he was engaged to be married, for the slight ache of longing persisted.
It was as well she would not be staying in Spa for more than these few months.
Perhaps James thought so, too, and was avoiding her.
In fact, she was certain of it, for he did not frequent La Redoute for his morning meals as the rest of society did.
It was probably for the best. Yesterday, during their return from the assembly hall to their hotel, her father had turned upon her suddenly. “I have just learned that young Mr. Fletcher is a physician—a noble profession to have in Spa, even if it is not quite so in England.”
“Yes, he has his diploma from the Faculty of Medicine in Edinburgh,” she answered, silently objecting to his view of physicians having a lower status in England.
Even if it were so, they should not. She wondered not for the first time if her father had had an inkling of their attachment when she was younger.
He continued in a voice that carried. “You two were friends once, weren’t you? It is a shame he is engaged to Miss Prexley now. He might otherwise have considered marrying you since you are both from Kent, and it is such a superior shire.” He sighed. “Ah well.”
By then they had reached their hotel, and Amy was not required to give an answer. She could not have returned one even if she had wished to.
This morning, they added to their tour of the sources the Géronstère, which—apart from the stone monument erected—was in a natural setting, surrounded by trees, with large rocks upon which to sit.
This was a more palatable water than the Sauvenière and purportedly had different properties that complemented Mr. Bridwell’s ailment.
Afterward, they all returned home in a rather dispirited manner instead of taking their meal at La Redoute, as Mr. Hughes had taken Mr. Bridwell to task for not following his instructions, and their father had not dared to show his face at his usual table when ten o’clock came around.
Fortunately, the post had arrived to distract them, bringing with it their first news from England.
Mr. Bridwell set down the letter and took a sip of his chocolate.
“Mrs. Waiting has written with news of Kent. I will let you read the letter yourselves, for it will surely interest you.” He gestured to Amy.
“Bring me my paper and pen. I shall respond to her straightaway. She will be wishing for my news.”
Hannah had managed to remain in the parlor with everyone for an hour after drinking the waters despite her desire to be at her books.
Now, her mouth opened in indignation. “Papa, you know you are not to write letters or to read anything in the mornings. You yourself said that we must not tax ourselves intellectually after drinking from the source.”
“So I did.” He paused for a moment reflecting on this inconvenience before brightening. “But then, last night’s full moon has afforded me with special acumen that must be expressed. You need not fear for me, my daughter, although I cherish your solicitude.”
Hannah returned no reply but within minutes had quietly withdrawn to her room.
“Here you are, Papa.” Amy handed him the paper, the inkwell, and his plume.
She took Mrs. Waiting’s letter and sat down to read it while she drank her chocolate.
To learn the news of friends far off would be one of her pleasures while on tour.
And now she would have interesting things to write back as well.
My dear Mr. Bridwell, the letter began.
My dear Miss Bridwell, Miss Hannah, and Miss Marianne—
By now, you must have reached your hotel in Spa. . . .
Amy read slowly, savoring every word along with her sips of chocolate.
It was thicker and sweeter, made with more ground chocolate and creamier milk than what was to be had in England.
This eased the long wait until noon somewhat, although she tried not to think of how she could have had both chocolate and a light meal had they gone to La Redoute.
According to Mrs. Waiting, Mr. Forrester and Miss Jemimah Tomlinson, a young couple she had known to be sweet upon each other, had indeed announced their betrothal.
The Buchanans had given birth to a healthy boy of nine pounds, an astonishing feat considering how small Catherine was.
Mr. Adam Fletcher, eldest son of the MP—at the name, Amy’s breath stilled—had increased his wealth through fortunate investments and was even now putting his name forward to represent one of the boroughs in their county, following in his father’s parliamentary footsteps.
No one knew what had become of his brother James, Mrs. Waiting wrote.
Adam was five years James’s senior and therefore had not frequented the youthful society in Charing.
By the time they were ensconced in Mrs. Waiting’s drawing room for games or supper balls, Adam was in London for the season.
He returned after James had left for his tour, and given the stiff way he had greeted Amy, she suspected he had been made privy to James’s tendresse for her.
James had once told her that his parents held high expectations for both of their sons, although the pressure for Adam was greater.
She set the unfinished letter on her lap as she mused over Adam’s political career.
It appeared that James’s brother was doing a fine job of meeting his parents’ expectations on his own.
She could not help but accuse him of hastening James on his path to marriage by not writing to tell him her wedding had been called off.
She tried to think well of Adam despite this.
The room flooded with morning sunshine as a cloud released the sun from captivity, and Amy looked through the window, blinking against the light.
Plunged in the past, she now thought of that dark period after James had left.
It had taken everything in her to go against both her father and Mr. Bromley, a man her father’s age, and refuse to marry him.
She found her courage in imagining that James would hear of it and rush back to her. That, of course, had never happened.
Amy finished the letter and folded it, putting an end to her daydreaming as Marianne began to set up her paints.
Their youngest sister always blatantly disregarded any idea of enforced rest after drinking the waters.
Mr. Bridwell was caught up on his reply, allowing his pen to sweep across the page in his epistle to Mrs. Waiting.
“Marianne,” she said, “you will not have much time to paint before we are to break our fast.”
Her sister had changed into an old gown she used for painting, and it was covered in splotches of dark green and black paint. She did not look at Amy as she set the brushes up in a line.
“I wish to finish the painting of the Capuchin garden. I was inspired by Mr. Lambert’s tableaux in the dining room, and I would like to be ready when he asks to see it.”